The King's Test: Jumpstart Duchy, #5

By Stefon Mears

Duke Aefric Brightstaff. Once an adventurer of great repute. Now the powerful Duke of Deepwater, in the kingdom of Armyr, on the world of Qorunn.

 

Success brings him a second title he must claim -- Baron of Netar.

 

But why this title? Why this land? The answers force Aefric into the heart of a political game between his king and queen.

 

Difficult choices assail him in Netar. New friends, new enemies, new challenges.

 

The adventuring life seems an easy dream beside…

 

The King's Test, a thrilling novel of epic fantasy adventure, full of spells and battles, love and politics, hard choices and more. Fans of Dungeons and Dragons, Skyrim, and The Witcher, don't miss this one!  The fifth book in the Jumpstart Duchy series. From Stefon Mears, author of the Rise of Magic series and the Spells for Hire series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thousand Faces Publishing
• Release date: Jan 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215773574

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The ducal stables at Water’s End were abuzz with last-minute activity. Grooms and pages running every which way. Fastening this and attending to that. Shouting to each other in some kind of shorthand. Making sure that nothing was forgotten.

Aefric Brightstaff was getting used to the fact that travel now meant causing a great deal of fuss. But he was still adjusting to the sheer volume of bustle and noise involved.

He’d been in quieter taverns during harvest festivals, back in his adventuring days.

Of course, no tavern would be this busy at this hour. The early autumn skies were only just starting to lighten toward gray. And Aefric wondered a little if the grooms and pages kept up their wicked pace just to drive away the predawn chill.

He knew better, though. He had a schedule to keep, and everyone around him was just doing their best to help him keep it. To make sure that Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater and Baron of Netar, had all of his people and horses ready to board their ship with the morning tide.

All of his people and horses. This was a relatively small entourage for him, these days. A half-dozen knights — his Knights of the Lake— and the two dozen soldiers of his personal guard. Plus a modest number of support staff…

…somewhere around here, anyway. Aefric didn’t see their carts, but he was sure that Ser Beornric Ol’Sandallas — his knight-adviser and the captain of his personal guard — had it all under control.

Beornric had been a knight about as long as Aefric had been alive — some twenty-five summers. And Beornric knew well enough how to handle last-minute preparations for a ride that would take more than an aett.

Eight days or so for Aefric to get to the royal capital at Armityr. Then likely one night at Armityr, and on to Aefric’s new barony.

Netar.

And it was Netar Aefric thought about that chill autumn morning. With the smell of hay and horses filling his nostrils.

King Colm could have given Aefric anything as a show of gratitude after Frozen Ridge. Ships. Money. Jewelry. Anything, really. But he’d chosen to give Aefric another title. More land. A barony.

He’d given Aefric Netar.

Which begged the question. Why Netar?

It was of about average size, as baronies go. Some fifty miles long, and bounded by the Maiden’s Blood River on the west and the kingdom of Rethneryl on the east. Major exports were iron and steel. Very deep mines, from what his seneschal had told him.

His Keifer McShane memories of Torn Kingdoms sourcebooks and adventures weren’t much help here. Netar was hardly a footnote in the sourcebooks. And the only adventure that featured it — was it I17 From Beneath the Mines? — was one of the few Keifer had never played.

So what was it about this particular stretch of land? Why did the king choose this barony for Aefric?

Because it was close to the capital, instead of a full aett’s ride away, like Water’s End? Was he hoping to have Aefric closer at hand?

Was it the value of those iron mines? A gift of wealth for a duke who, to be honest, already had a great deal?

Or was there something about Netar itself, that the king wanted Aefric to deal with personally? A problem, perhaps? Something brought up by the Godswalk Wars? Or some strange magic?

Or was there another reason entirely?

Why Netar?

1

When last Aefric Brightstaff had come to Armityr, he had found a city in pain.

The Godswalk Wars had used it hard. The walls that surrounded the city had doubtless looked impregnable in their day. Fully seventy feet high, twenty feet thick, and made from strong, white and gray stone.

But those walls had been broken through in at least four places.

Broken through. By might or by magic. Either way, a great deal of effort.

There must’ve been quite a siege.

And the invaders had not been kind, once they’d gotten inside. Whole sections of Armityr had been burnt away, or trampled, or simply sunk into the ground.

At least a third of the surviving populace had been reduced to living in tents and camps while working feverishly to rebuild what they could, of what they’d lost.

And the royal palace. Oh, that poor palace. The first truly great construction built entirely by human hands anywhere on Qorunn. It predated the kingdom of Armyr itself by thousands of years, and likely held at least one secret for each year.

That palace had been glorious, once upon a time. All that white and gray stone. Fitted together so tightly there’d been no need for mortar. The mighty keep. The battlements. The towers.

Aefric had never seen it that way. He’s seen it with whole sections collapsed, to say nothing of its towers.

Aefric recalled —from his reading of Torn Kingdoms game books back on Earth as Keifer McShane — that the royal palace at Armityr once boasted as many as six tall towers, reaching more than two hundred feet into the sky.

True, smaller than Aefric’s ducal castle, the Castle at Water’s End. But what wasn’t?

Still. Six tall towers.

Only two of those towers still stood this past spring, when Aefric had been named Duke of Deepwater by King Colm Stronghand.

And one of those towers had leaned badly. Like a staggered warrior, struggling to keep its feet in the heat of battle.

So much damage to such a famous castle. Not just one of Armyr’s shining gems, either, but home to the royal family.

Nevertheless, King Colm had permitted only minimal work on the palace itself.

He’d insisted that restoring the city came first.

More than a season and a half had passed since then. They were now two aetts into autumn. The rains would soon be coming in earnest, making construction more difficult.

Aefric found himself caught between eagerness to see how well repairs were coming along, and reminding himself that, most likely, they still had a long way to go.

The eagerness was winning. Had been, since he’d crossed the borders of his duchy into the royal lands only a few days ago, riding the wide, smooth Kingsroad through rolling hills and farmland.

Now Aefric’s pulse began to quicken. He and his entourage were nearing the end of this leg of his journey. The final waypoint, Riverkeep, now coming into view as the late afternoon sunlight at his back bled its way to orange.

Riverkeep. A squat, bulky gray stone keep. More than big enough to house a hundred soldiers, plus all their support staff and such.

Within Riverkeep’s wide, hexagonal outer walls, that support staff had practically formed a small town. Smiths and wrights and other crafters, as well as a handful of farms and plenty of livestock. When Aefric had ridden through last spring, he’d even seen children inside those walls.

Anyone trying to lay siege to Riverkeep would have trouble waiting them out.

Trouble surviving that wait, too. Every hard point of Riverkeep’s outer walls featured ballistae. And the keep itself maintained at least four impressive catapults on its roof.

A single keep, controlling access to both the Maiden’s Blood River, and the Kingsroad. With walls extending into the wide river itself a good dozen feet. And between their ends hung chain nets could be raised to close the river. Chain nets thick and heavy enough to stop a warship.

And the Kingsroad, of course, passed right under the keep itself. Through a tunnel filled with portcullises and hundreds of murder holes, and across a drawbridge entirely inside those outer walls.

And yet, Riverkeep had been ignored during the Godswalk Wars. The borog armies spurred on by that fell god, Xazik the Flayer, had tunneled their way under the Maiden’s Blood instead.

What a thing to contemplate. Tunneling their way under such a wide, deep river. Had that been easier or harder for them than breaking through Armityr’s walls?

If it were harder, why go to so much effort instead of assaulting Riverkeep? If it were easier, why break down the walls at Armityr? Why not tunnel under them?

There was a point of strategy missing here somewhere.

Could it be that Armityr had been assaulted by something other than the Flayer’s borog armies?

Aefric had never stopped to consider that before. Certainly he hadn’t been anywhere nearby during the siege of Armityr.

In fact, he wasn’t sure where he’d been at the time. He’d rushed about so much during the wars…

Riverkeep’s gates stood wide open as Aefric and his entourage approached.

At last. He was almost there.

But between Aefric and those gates, a line. At least three long merchant caravans ahead of Aefric, and one of them looked to be hauling nothing but dark gray stone. No way their poor horses could get their loads moving quickly again, when the time came.

This would not be a short wait.

Frustration knotted muscles in Aefric’s shoulders and jaw. He was so close to a true stopping point, only to be delayed here, while the sun was beginning to set behind him.

A full aett’s ride to get this far, from Water’s End.

A full aett. When he was adventuring, even ahorse he could have made this ride in six days. Four or five, it he rode his phantasmal magaunt instead of a mortal horse.

Of course, this trip would have been worse with a full entourage, instead of this relatively small traveling company of his Knights of the Lake — seven of those, if he included their captain, Ser Beornric — plus the twenty-four soldiers of his personal guard, and no more than another score or so of support personnel.

And all of them riding, either on horseback or in carts. So there’d been no slowing down for marchers.

Still. Eight days. And now, stalled. With Armityr so close that Aefric could just make out the shape of those white and gray walls in the distance, past the hexagonal gray stone of Riverkeep’s walls.

He turned to grouse to Beornric about the wait — one advantage of having a knight-adviser was that Aefric had someone to complain to at moments like this — but Beornric wasn’t there. Just an empty space between Aefric and his left-flank guard, Ser Vria Aldellac.

Vria was the smallest of Aefric’s knights, with her fine-boned eldrani heritage. And woe betide any foe who mistook her beauty for weakness.

Ser Beornric is still settling that matter between the cooks, your grace.

Still? Aefric asked. He knew that some people didn’t travel well together, but this was the third time in the last four days Beornric had needed to settle some dispute between those two.

This time he’d been gone at least half an hour. Just how much trouble could there be?

As if hearing his cue, Beornric came riding up on his heavy black destrier. And he needed a big horse, for Beornric was a big man. Still heavily muscled, despite the sprinkling of gray among his black hair and bushy mustache.

If I have to talk to those two again, Beornric growled, then trailed off as he seemed to realize that everyone else was standing still.

Ah, Beornric, Aefric said, with a bitter smile. I look forward to hearing all about this trouble between the cooks. We must have something to fill this wait.

Wait? Beornric said, frowning at Vria and then at heavily scarred Ser Wardius, who was riding guard on Aefric’s right flank. If this ever happens again, whistle the blockage.

He turned to Aefric. "I apologize for the delay, your grace. I’ll just see about this wait."

Before Aefric could respond, Beornric had called one of the standard bearers to join him, and took off along the line, bound for the gates.

Aefric turned to Vria. Whistle the blockage?

Standard military procedure, your grace, Vria said, looking a little chagrined. Sometimes a force is moving and finds it way unexpectedly blocked. Such as when a bridge has been washed out, or a mountain pass destroyed by an avalanche. There’s a whistle to send word back down the line so the commanders can adjust.

Beornric didn’t need long to return. And he didn’t return alone, but accompanied by six soldiers wearing the king’s livery.

As I thought, Beornric said, smiling in satisfaction and resuming his place beside Aefric, while Riverkeep’s soldiers spread out around Aefric’s procession. As his majesty is expecting your grace, Riverkeep had standing orders to keep us from waiting in line.

One of Riverkeep’s soldiers whistled the ride, and Aefric’s procession began to move again, just to one side of the line and straight for the gates.

Well, perhaps there were some advantages to traveling as a duke…

Aefric didn’t just get to skip the line. Space was cleared for his entourage all the way through Riverkeep. With the king’s soldiers guiding, they moved swiftly across the bridge, through the tunnel, and out the other side.

It all happened so rapidly that Aefric didn’t have time to wonder what the soldiers had been searching for in those stalled caravans.

He was riding the Kingsroad again, with the sunlight dying at his back, and the shadows of Riverkeep stretching across a series of merchant encampments outside the gates of Armityr itself. The merchants and their workers were already lighting torches and lanterns — some of the wealthier among them bringing out enchanted lightstones — to chase away those shadows.

Those encampments were no haphazard collection of tents and pavilions, either. They looked like a temporary town unto themselves, stretching between Riverkeep and Armityr and split down the middle by the Kingsroad.

The smell of canvas and horses, of cook fires and … was that blacksmith coke? Certainly it would explain the metal-on-metal ringing that underlay some of the hammering.

This temporary town was a busy place, and not just with work. Aefric could hear music and laughter as well.

The layout looked to be organized into two sections. The first bringing building supplies to Armityr — such as that dark gray stone Aefric had spotted among the caravans held up at Riverkeep — and the second supplying the first with whatever they needed in their camps.

Now that was odd. As though the merchants themselves weren’t being allowed into Armityr…

Wait.

The city gates were closed.

The Kingsroad gates into Armityr, huge, heavy things of spell-hardened and iron-banded oak, sat closed and guarded by a score of soldiers in the king’s livery. Each of them bearing pikes.

Looked as though all damage to the west side of those high, strong white and gray stone walls had been fully repaired. And soldiers patrolled them once more.

Clearly they were expecting some kind of problem. Still. Closing the city gates before full dark?

Aefric might’ve been troubled by this, but his guiding soldiers weren’t. They just blew trumpets to clear traffic from the Kingsroad and led Aefric straight to the gates.

The pikemen held firm.

Aefric looked to Beornric, who usually spoke for Aefric in situations like these. Beornric nodded, and drew breath to bellow out a greeting.

Before he could, someone called down from the wall.

By those banners, may I presume I have the honor of addressing his grace, the Duke of Deepwater?

You do, Beornric answered. Who calls?

I am Ser Osvalt Ol’Nicnorra.

Aefric spotted the speaker then. An older knight, up on the wall, leaning with one hand on a crenellation.

I must apologize, Ser Osvalt continued, but by order of the king, the Kingsroad Gate is to be closed before sunset, and remain closed until morning. I have been instructed to ask your grace to proceed to the southern gate, where he will be admitted at once and escorted to their majesties’ presence.

Aefric gave Beornric a nod.

Very well, Beornric called back. Thank you, Ser Osvalt.

Osvalt bowed to Aefric, but didn’t seem to expect a response. The king’s soldiers led Aefric and his company south around the city walls.

The city walls looked to be in good shape. Which made sense, if they intended to keep anyone out.

Southern gate? Beornric asked, as they rode. Armityr didn’t used to have a southern gate.

It’s one of the spots where the walls were broken through, during the wars, Aefric said. It was being built when Faenella and I left after my installment ceremony. I had the impression it was added to ease bringing in wood from the forest to the south.

It’ll also give Malimfar and Caiperas an easier place to break through, if they invade.

Almost verbatim what Faenella said, Aefric said, chuckling. Faenella Darkwalker was another former adventurer, raised up by King Colm to hold the county of Fyretti, in Aefric’s duchy.

She was also of the Order of Blessed Knights. As devout as she was deadly.

Not surprised, Beornric said. By reputation she has a good military mind.

Sure enough, there were encampments around the southern gate as well. Smaller, though, and most of them looked to involve timber. And all lit up the growing twilight with torches, lanterns and lightstones.

No work being done down here. From the smells and sounds, most of the people were settling down to dinner.

The southern gate was smaller, only perhaps twenty feet across. Though also of spell-hardened, iron-banded oak.

The gate was opening as Aefric’s party approached, but their way was barred by soldiers, with long spears pointed as though to hold against a charge. And Aefric spotted at least a half-dozen soldiers not quite aiming crossbows, up on the wall.

He sensed magic, too. There was a magic-user on the other side of all those spears. Someone of no minor talent.

All those weapons. Very nearly menacing. And the Brightstaff, sitting ready and waiting in its sling by Aefric’s saddle.

Taking his signature weapon in hand would be all too easy.

But would it be the wrong move?

What is the meaning of this? Beornric bellowed. "His grace arrives at the invitation of his majesty, your liege."

I am well aware of that, good Ser Beornric.

Aefric didn’t know that voice. A woman’s.

He spotted her easily enough, though, as she stepped through the line of spears. She looked youthful, no more than a decade older than Aefric. Not a wrinkle in her dark complexion, nor a gray hair in her long black curls. She wore robes of dark red and light gray, an interesting study in contrasts.

She carried an obsidian rod that looked more than a little like the strange rod that Aefric’s court wizard and oldest friend — Karbin — often carried.

She didn’t introduce herself. But then, many powerful wizards didn’t, until asked.

Nevertheless, Aefric knew her. That rod. That aura of power. She could only be Nayoria, Royal Wizard of Armyr.

May I approach, your grace? she asked, her tone somewhere between humorous and respectful.

Apparently Beornric thought she erred too far on the side of humor. He frowned deeply, and with that mustache, it was quite a show.

Or was it the woman herself that made Beornric frown? He’d served more than two decades in service to the king. He had to have met — or at least seen — the royal wizard before.

Perhaps Aefric would remember to ask later. In the meantime, he answered her question.

Please do approach, Aefric said. Though I find myself unsure of the proper mode of address for a royal wizard. Shall I call you Lord Wizard?

I would prefer your grace call me Nayoria, she said, stepping smoothly past knights, soldiers and horses to stand between Aefric and Beornric.

I shall then, Aefric said, and Beornric smiled. Likely pleased that Aefric hadn’t permitted her a similar familiarity. What’s going on here, Nayoria?

I must ask your grace to bear with me for just a moment, she said, quietly. Your identity is easy enough to confirm by the Brightstaff at your side, your grace. But would you do me the favor of speaking your name and titles for me? Softly, if your grace would be so kind.

Aefric frowned, and felt her casting a spell of detection, though she did little more than mutter.

I am Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater and Baron of Netar.

She moved her obsidian rod sharply, as though catching Aefric’s words.

Oh, he understood then. This was an identity test. And it wasn’t for him.

Nayoria thrust her rod straight into the air while calling out the word Raikund!

A pulse of ultraviolet energy emanated from the tip of her rod, in all directions at once, striking every member of Aefric’s entourage.

As her power touched them, each of his knights and soldiers straightened a little, but otherwise showed no reaction.

But from somewhere back down the line came two sharp cries.

There! Nayoria cried out.

Two youths — both wreathed in flickering, glowing orange light — leaped down from the kitchen carts and ran. One west, one east.

Neither got far. One was taken down by a crossbow bolt. The other was caught by rings of Nayoria’s magic.

There was a good deal of shouting and crying out then. Weapons drawn. Accusations screamed.

Aefric called a halt to all of it by pulling the Brightstaff from its sling and causing it to sound a clap of thunder.

What. Just. Happened? he said into the silence that followed his thunderclap.

Your grace recognized the spell? Nayoria asked, smiling. Her magic conveyed the writhing former kitchen boy through the air. He no longer flickered orange, but was bound now. Ringed in strips of purple magic, including one around his mouth.

Some sort of identity confirmation, Aefric said.

Nayoria frowned, one eyebrow high. "This is your grace’s first encounter with the raikund?"

Yes, Aefric said, and I should warn you that I’ve had a very long ride.

Forgive me, your grace, Nayoria said with a small bow. "I do not mean to try your grace’s patience. Merely express respect for your grace’s puissance with the Art. That he had never seen the raikund before, and was able to discern so much so quickly speaks well of your grace and his teachers."

Thank you, Aefric said. But that doesn’t answer my question.

"The raikund tests allegiance, and identified two among your grace’s entourage who owed their allegiance to someone other than your grace."

Spies? Aefric asked.

Or assassins, Nayoria said. Though they look a little young for that. We’ll know the truth soon enough though.

Aefric’s own soldiers brought the wounded youth up then. He’d taken a crossbow bolt through the thigh, but it could have been much worse.

So, Aefric said, I take it this means that the matter of those attempts on the royal family hasn’t been resolved.

That is a topic your grace should discuss with the king, Nayoria said. I shall attend to the prisoners. Your grace and the remainder of his entourage are most welcome, and will be guided to their majesties at once.

Indeed, Beornric muttered, as Nayoria left with the prisoners. Welcome to Armityr, your grace.

I feel welcome, Aefric said, just as softly. Don’t you?

Very much so. Shall I interview the cooking staff later and find out more?

Please do, Aefric said, as the procession began to move. Whether they’re spies, assassins, or something else entirely, I want answers.

Aefric didn’t get a good look at the state of repairs in the capital city as he and his entourage were guided quickly through the streets to the palace.

Dusk was rapidly giving way to night by then, and though the cobbled streets he rode were well lit, they were also a part of the city that … well, it might have been restored, or it might never have been damaged.

If Aefric knew, he didn’t recall. Either way, the buildings around him were all two and three stories tall, and all looked to be in good repair.

That was about all the attention he had for them. The day had grown long. And the delays first at Riverkeep, then at the two gates had made it feel interminable.

What Aefric really wanted — what he would expect under normal circumstances — was that he would be taken to his rooms and given the chance to rest and refresh himself before being brought to the royal presence.

But the tension in the air, the greeting at the gate and the discovery of two who were at least spies of some stripe — these things had left no doubt in Aefric’s mind that his day would get much longer before he had a chance to rest.

At least, however, his horses would finally get their chance to rest. The king’s soldiers guided Aefric first to the avener, where grooms would see to the horses while pages saw to the luggage.

Aefric’s party was split at that point. Only his knights would be allowed to accompany him to meet their majesties.

When Aefric asked about that he was told — quickly, by a very nervous page — that the soldiers and others of Aefric’s company were taken directly to their dinner, and would then be given lodging.

Aefric and his knights were then escorted into the palace by a side door, not the main entrance. And that nervous page — a coltish young woman with long, chestnut hair — hustled them up three flights of white and gray stone stairs just inside the walls.

They came out into a dark, narrow hallway, entirely paneled in dark hardwoods, and lit only by a single, thick pillar candle in a sconce.

The page picked up the candle, which cast scant light in the dark hallway.

Aefric didn’t say anything. He just lit up the yellow diamond embedded in the top of the that six-foot length of white thunderwood that was the Brightstaff.

That yellow diamond was as big as the last joint of Aefric’s thumb, which made it larger than the meager flame on that candle. And the light that diamond cast right now was enough to see clearly, but not enough to hurt anyone’s eyes.

The page started to say something.

Aefric pulled a copy of that light from the tip of the Brightstaff and tossed it to the back where he was confident that one of his knights would catch it on a dagger.

The page worried at her lip.

Were you told to bring us in darkness? Aefric asked.

No, your grace, she said, and every word sounded as though it had to be dragged out of her lips.

Why was this poor girl so nervous?

She needed one very deep breath before she could explain.

It’s a matter of both tradition and practicality, your grace, she said, lowering her voice now. This passageway is secret, and too much light could alert the unwary.

Do you usually escort eight people through this corridor?

She frowned and blinked. Caught between puzzled and wary. No, your grace.

Then indulge me in preventing my knights from stumbling around in the dark.

She quickly bowed. Of course, your grace. Please forgive me, your grace.

There’s nothing to forgive, Aefric said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion.

Fortunately, the poor, nervous girl didn’t have to escort Aefric much farther. They’d gone only perhaps a hundred feet down that corridor — passing at least four spyholes and two small doors that Aefric spotted — before she paused at a sliding door and knocked.

Knocked.

On a door that led out from a hidden corridor.

Aefric shook his head, but bit down what would have been intended as a humorous remark, but might’ve have been the last thing her nerves could take.

And he didn’t need to make a page faint dead away right now.

He did extinguish his magical lights, though, leaving them in the light of her single candle, just as he heard a muffled voice say, Come.

A moment, Aefric said, and the page worried her lip again. I should look proper to meet their majesties.

To Aefric, the spell he cast then was a little nothing. Something he’d puzzled out during his first apprenticeship, and now knew so well that casting it didn’t even feel like effort. He could probably cast it while bound, gagged, and struggling against a double-dose of sleeping poison.

But to see the way the page’s dark blue eyes widened as power shimmered down Aefric’s body. To see the way her jaw dropped as the wake of that power left Aefric sparkling clean — from the tips of his long, sandy blonde hair, through his pale blue silk tunic and his dark brown